It was another twenty minutes before the radio hissed and Kirov’s voice came through.
He had followed the glacier for two miles until he was sure he was out of sight, and then ducked behind an odd shaped hummock that he had found earlier that day. Hidden here, he changed into the camouflage gear that had been left for him and moved back up the glacier. Half an hour later, he was back in the snow cave, his legs aching from the awkward uphill run. He got through to Quayle on his fourth attempt.
“Blue one blue one, weather for tomorrow is as expected over.”
Quayle didn’t speak, just smiled grimly and pressed his transmit button twice to signal he had heard. His eyes glittering, he stood on the ledge in the wind and, for the first time in months, began to perform his mantra, settling his mind and becoming one with his body for the dawn and whatever it would bring.
*
Tansey-Williams took the proffered drink from Borshin and stood before the big fireplace, facing the American.
“So you mean to tell me that this has been going on for some time and you only involve us now?”
“Relax,” Borshin said dryly. “You’re lucky you are in at all. This is a localised problem, other than your minutemen being involved...”
“It’s a question of ‘who is who’,” Tansey-Williams said, sipping his drink noisily, then coughing and peering into his glass to see what measure the Soviet had used when pouring the Scotch. “Your people, from the Supreme Court down, could be involved.”
“Bullshit, gentlemen! My people are clean!” Borshin laughed out loud and Gershin glowered at him. As a KGB General, he would know. “And I don’t consider an attempt to wipe out half the heads of Eastern Europe a local problem...”
Into the silence that followed, the German spoke for the first time. “It’s not a question of clean, Leo. It’s a question of politics and beliefs. The company is made of extreme right wingers and conservatives. That’s why you, amongst others, take them.” Then, leaving that thought to dangle in the air, he stood and walked to the drinks trolley, starting to heave ice into a cut glass tumbler.
In the anteroom, the German’s aides sat eating sandwiches with Chloe Bowie, who had accompanied her Director General from London. Upstairs, listening to the conversation on a speaker in one of the bedrooms, was yet another man, grey haired and drinking milk from a tall glass. Only Borshin knew he was there.
“Minutemen, you say they are called. Let me at a secure line and I’ll let you have what we have inside half an hour. The policies on co-operation are clear here...”
“Which means you help us when you feel like it?” Tansey-Williams said. “And bugger you Jack when you don’t. Rather like ours, really.” He paused. “There’s a phone in the study. My communications people tell me it will patch you through London.”
“They gonna listen in?”
“Certainly not!” Tansey-Williams replied stiffly.
Up in the spare room, the grey haired milk drinker turned of his speaker and sat back to think. As Director of the CIA, it was something he did a lot of.
*
A hour before midnight, Kirov took his turn at the observation hole, drawing back the nylon flap and the space blanket that shielded the cave from infrared imaging equipment. He had seen none amongst the gear the men were handling at the refuge, but that meant nothing. Behind him, the remainder of the team – with the exception of Sergi, who was out in the dark somewhere with a radio – were checking their own equipment. Two of them sat on the sleeping platform and the others gathered around the gas lamp, cleaning and oiling their weapons, waxing skis, and preparing ropes. Another sergeant crouched, stirring a pot of something thick and meaty. When they left the cave, they would not be back.
Kirov wiped some snow from his face and leant into the glasses again. Across the glacier, the glow of lamps around the refuge was warm and cheery. He looked again and saw a silhouette move across one light. Here we go, he thought. Movement. Titus had said they would leave just after midnight to give themselves enough time to cross to the foot of the mountain safely and be in place before dawn. He looked at his watch. It was near enough. Satisfied, he crawled back into the main chamber of the cave and grinned at the others.
“We go soon.”
“Right, you fuckers!” the senior man said, lifting the pot from the tiny burner. “Eat and drink now. There’ll be fuck all until we’re back.”
Kirov held the radio to his lips.
“Grepon grepon Pierre…”
Sergi came back, “Grepon allo Pierre.”
“Grepon message for you, please phone Phillipe when you are in. His wife has had the baby, he is leaving now.”
“Oui Pierre, I will do that.”
Up on the mountain, Quayle – who was waiting for a message about a woman with a baby – turned his radio off and settled back to rest. It would be six hours before there would be enough light to begin the climb, and he pulled the sleeping bag, with its oilskin outer, on and rolled back against the ledge. The snow began to settle immediately so, drawing his balaclava down, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. At this altitude it would be days before he could acclimatise enough to sleep properly, but he had to try.
As soon as he closed his eyes, all he saw was Holly. Soon now my love, he thought. Soon all this will be over.
For Kirov below, the problem was now how many of them were leaving to cross to the head of the glacier, and how many would stay at the hut. He had seen two telescopes. Big powerful ones that could see up the mountain at that distance. That
